Tricia's Improbable Occurences
Right!  The time has come, methinks for the second installment of Haley's and my fic, Whatever Remains, However Improbable (credit to her for the title).  This is another prologue of sorts, this time from the point of view of Tricia McMillan (or Trillian, as she is more commonly known in the original books).
To know what the hell's going on, I suggest you read Haley's brilliant prologue here. Â It's honestly amazing and quite short.
But onto my installment! Â I hope you enjoy.
(Look out for the Hitchhiker's, Sherlock, and Third Star references!!)
It wasnât a particularly large bowl of petunias. Â In fact, as far as bowls of petunias go, it was perfectly ordinary. Â What was rather less than ordinary, however, was its inexplicable appearance in Tricia McMillanâs shower one Thursday evening when she was doing her best to mind her own business and not get caught up with preternatural shenanigans.
It had been a trying day. Â Four months, four long, arduous months Tricia had slaved over an in depth series of columns on the day-to-day lives of the Metropolitan Police. Â She had pitched this series herself, feeling that after the summer riots and those dreadful bomb-strapped kidnappings the public needed to have an insight into the force to understand their jobs, to empathise with them. Â She had felt very passionately about this, and it was only after the hour long pitch meeting, where the volume of her voice increased with each slide she showed of her presentation, that she realised it was likely her editor only allowed her articles in order to shut her up. Â
Regardless of this distinct possibility, Tricia decided to take this as a win. Although she was a fairly well regarded journalist, she had yet to publish her career-making article, and she had high hopes for a Press Award with this series.
Tricia hadnât always wanted to be a journalist. As a child, she had spent hours just staring into the blank night sky. The dim moon floated absently, but she knew, just knew, there should be other astral objects lighting up the heavens. How, or why, she knew this she wasnât sure. But of one thing she soon became certain: she was not the only person who felt this way.
Growing up, she devoured books devoted to this topic, this branch of science that was regarded more as philosophy by the majority of the educated masses. Although she loved it, astrophysics was hardly a well-regarded profession. It was based on the idea that the world somehow didnât match what should be scientific fact. Science could only reach a certain point in explaining why the Earth exists, and when all the calculations were done the question still remained: where, beyond the confines of this cloud bound planet, are we? The idea that there could, should, be something else beyond the Earth, was pooh-poohed by every respectable physicist, but even they couldnât deny that some laws of physics just didnât add up. They could provide no explanation of the Earth or sunâs existence, and most of the worldâs population turned instead to religion to give answers (the Cult of the Great Green Arkleseizure being the most popular, though it was even accepted by its own followers to be rather silly).
Most people, however, simply didnât care. For aeons the human race had had no need to look up to the sky, and so they had evolved without a need to wonder what its relevance was to their lives. The idea that the Earth is round, and orbits something entirely disconnected from it, struggled to gain acceptance. The existence of other planets also orbiting the sun was widely regarded as preposterous speculation, and entirely unimportant in comparison to the vital concerns of everyday life.
Frustrated with this planet-locked attitude prevalent in society, Tricia had ignored her parentsâ protests and had pursued her astrophysicist dreams. But the prospect of being stuck in labs for the rest of her life, searching for something that simply wasnât there filled her with such a faint horror that instead she turned her questioning and critical mind to journalism. At least there, maybe, she could find some answers.
Initially, she had believed her calling was to be a TV anchor. Tricia had spent months trying to break into the news scene. Eventually, after a plethora of humiliating interviews where she was asked to do everything from mindlessly read inane cue cards to perform magic tricks on request, none of which actually lead to any job opportunities, Tricia admitted defeat.
Walking home from a particularly embarrassing audition, where she had to read current events while juggling small Chinese cat statues, Tricia mentally resigned herself to a lifetime of doing endless fruitless calculations, searching for a universe that simply wasnât there. The inky canopy seemed to mock her that night, as even the moon was hidden behind a cloud leaving nothing to light her way home. London was hardly the friendliest of places, and turning yet another menacing corner Tricia reflected that she probably should have accepted the offer of sharing a cab with Richard, her co-anchor for the audition. Nice as he seemed, however, Tricia found his deep black eyes rather unnerving, and had got the feeling sheâd be safer walking the streets alone.
It was the yell of terror that first alerted Tricia to the danger she had unwittingly walked into. Jumping nearly out of her skin, Tricia whipped around at the noise, which had come from an alley behind her. She paused.
There is a moment in everyoneâs life where they are forced to make a choice: to continue on and escape danger, or to do the foolish thing and investigate. It was this moment that now tore at Tricia, her sensible brain urging her to just ignore the scream, her journalistic curiosity tempting her to seek out the cause of her dilemma.
Another scream rent the frozen air, and Triciaâs decision was made. She ran back to the alley, her killer heels heralding her arrival, her footfalls echoing off the darkened buildings. However, she was not the knight in shining armour, as she had anticipated, but rather the witness to what happened next.
The owner of the scream, a short businessman, cowered against the wall, set upon by a menacing figure. A knife glinted in the dim light, and Tricia recoiled as the man lunged forward. But before it could reach its target his blade was halted as a pointed heel crashed in the manâs shoulder. With a yelp he sprang back, revealing the scantily clad woman who had dealt the blow, a smirk of victory animating her heavily painted face. Â Without giving the attacker pause to collect himself, she floored him with a hefty kick to the groin, then another swift kick to the stomach for good measure.
Tricia watched, in terrified awe, as the woman helped the businessman up. âYer alright, love?â In reply to his frightened nod, she grinned. âDidnât yer ma ever tell you not to go wanderinâ down dark alleys?â
The Tale of the Valiant Prostitute, as it was dubbed it on Triciaâs blog, earned her the attention she needed to get a job at the Inquisitor, a broadsheet held in quite high regard. From then on Triciaâs career as a journalist was ensured, and for years she penned many an article that lead to modest promotions. She was still searching for that career-maker though, and thatâs what lead her to the four months following the Met and Scotland Yard in their various investigations, to varying degrees of annoyance from her articleâs subjects. But none were more annoyed than the man who wasnât even supposed to be part of her column series, yet invaded every investigation regardless.
They had hated each other at first. He had a knack for pissing off just about everyone he worked with, and he highly resented working with her. Though she had a pass to gain her access to crime scenes, he often banned her from them while he worked, which infuriated Tricia no end. The fact that he wasnât even part of the police force served to only aggravate her more. They had many a confrontation, ones that only grew more heated once he discovered the subject of her university qualifications. If there was anyone who abhorred the field of astrophysics the most, it was Sherlock Holmes. He took endless delight in ridiculing her belief that something lay beyond the sky, mocking her at every opportunity. Their arguments would only stop when Lestrade stepped in to mediate, which more often than not resulted in Tricia, yet again, being banished from the room.
âHow on Earth do you put up with him,â Tricia had demanded of Sherlockâs only companion after one particularly fierce debate on the merits of journalism. How they managed to get onto that subject at the scene of a murdered waitress Tricia would never know.
âThereâs a knack to it,â John replied, handing her a cuppa. âIt lies in ignoring just about everything he says until he asks a direct question, at which point itâs best to just agree with him, regardless of whether you were listening.â
âIâll try and bear that in mind,â she muttered, cradling the polystyrene cup of something that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. The Met never could make a decent cuppa during an investigation, much to Triciaâs chagrin.
âOf course he hates the press, which doesnât help.â
Tricia rolled her eyes. Of course he did.
âI shouldnât tell you this, but he tried to get you sacked. Or permanently banned from âinvading delicate investigationsâ as he put it.â
âDoes he have something against me in particular, or is he always this much of a narcissistic control freak,â Tricia demanded angrily.
John chuckled. âA bit of both, I think. But mostly he just hates the idea of his name being in the papers. Heâs never done this for public attention. He just wants to be left alone to his cases.â
Tricia raised an eyebrow. âIs that it? Well heâs got nothing to worry about. If he thinks his overly-intellectual histrionics are making it into my columns, heâs got another think coming.â
âWell maybe you should tell him that.â
Tricia took a meditative sip of her tea, a decision she immediately regretted. âMaybe I will.â
In fact, Sherlock and Tricia soon earned each otherâs mutual respect. After Triciaâs quick thinking aided Sherlock and John when they were set upon by a murderous gang, and after she assured him that there was no way in the heavens that she would sully her articles by mentioning him, Sherlock grudgingly accepted Tricia as a worthy acquaintance. She, in return, tried to stop thinking of him as a complete arrogant dick, without much success. But his talents of deduction and the people they saved, no matter how he crowed about it, far outweighed any blot on his character caused by, well, his character.
Besides, when all was said and done, Tricia couldnât shake this feeling of familiarity she got when she encountered Sherlock and John. It was as though, in some memory on the edge of her consciousness, she had experienced being friends with them. Having fun, bickering, travelling, surviving, drifting apart and back together too many times to mention. It was just an impression that struck her, as fleeting as it was intense, but the way it nagged at her whenever she spoke to them made it hard to ignore. What made it even more disturbing was that she often caught that glint of confused recognition in their eyes too. In any case, as bizarre as it was, Tricia found herself warming to the odd couple, and almost missed Sherlockâs derisive comments when her articles were completed.
It was odd, walking back into the Inquistorâs headquarters when she had become so accustomed to Scotland Yard. She felt quite out of place. These feelings melted away however, as she sauntered into her editorâs office. This was it, the beginning of her shining career. Her Press Award acceptance speech already composing itself in her head, Tricia knocked on the door sharply.
âSo? What did you think?â
What followed was a conversation Tricia would play many times in her memory, and yet could shed no light on her failure. The columns were too chatty, not up to scratch, just not what the paper needed... The excuses went on and on, and Tricia felt her anger increase until she couldnât contain herself. Several vicious icy comments about the Inquisitorâs integrity, and the editorâs manhood, later and she found herself out on the street without a job. So much for her Press Award.
That evening, in the shower, as she closed her eyes to the warm rush of water flowing over her, Tricia reflected on the strangeness of what had happened. Her articles were good, she knew they were. And she had slaved over them for four months on the paperâs money â why would they be rejected out of hand? Had she been one to dwell on conspiracy theories she would have suspected foul play. Someone wanted the police to stay tarnished in the publicâs eye, or someone wanted her distracted for four months. Usually Tricia paid no heed to paranoid suspicions, but if working beside Sherlock had taught her anything, itâs that you couldnât rule any suspicion out until you had been presented evidence to the contrary. And she could think of no other reason for her columnsâ rejection. She was, after all, an excellent journalist.
Pondering this, the sudden arrival of the bowl of petunias presented a welcome, if intrusive, distraction. Tricia yelped in shock as the bowl clattered to the floor, soil pouring out and mixing messily with the soapy water.
Triciaâs mind did uncomfortable twisting things at the sudden entrance of the petunias. She threw open the shower curtains, glaring around her to see if... Well, what exactly? What strange attacker, who vanquished foes with petunias, was she looking for? Several good stiff cuppas and a shock blanket later, Tricia regarded the petunias with a critical eye. She could see nothing to explain its appearance, and dusting for prints (she had picked up a thing or two at Scotland Yard) provided no clues. On a whim, Tricia dug her old Geiger counter out of her university box (marked âASTROPHYSISHITâ), and upon nearing the bowl of petunias was forced to cover her ears to protect them from the deafening clicks.
This thing was giving off some wacked out radiation, that was for sure, the exact type of which, however, Tricia couldnât pin point. Despite pulling her best sciency tricks, analysing the petunias with every piece of radiation equipment at her disposal (and she had a plethora: as the inhabitants of Earth had no sky to gaze up at, they instead entertained themselves by seeking out the fierce power of the planetâs elements. A millennia of science was spent studying these phenomena, and to this day nuclear power is by far the safest and greenest way of producing energy), Tricia still could not discover what kind of radiation the bowl was saturated with. All she knew was that it was sneaky (often messing with her equipment and manifesting different properties each time) and something completely and utterly new.
Distracting as this was, however, it was really rather silly. Her mind still spinning, Tricia retired to bed, remembering her dismal unemployed status just as she hit sleep.
The next morning was a grumpy one, the sun lurking behind low hanging clouds that threatened, if not rain, a miserably overcast day for all. Tricia moped around her flat. âPetuniasâ, she thought, munching on toast and flipping through TV channels.
â...was found on Barafundle Bay this morning. An improbable tragedy, the locals are calling it, while the police warn not to approach the carcass. The unfortunate creature was first spotted last night, apparently plummeting from the sky, by beachcomber Larry Bonneville, who reported that he first couldnât believe his eyes. Closer inspection of the crater, however, has supported his assertion that we are, in fact, dealing with the death of what once was an airborne whale.â
Tricia blinked, and turned off the television. The word improbable wandered around her brain in search of something to connect with. Chewing meditatively, Tricia stomped outside to pick up her newspaper, waiting outside her door.
IS IT A BIRD? IS IT A PLANE? NO, ITâS A WHALE! proclaimed the front page.
âPetunias,â Tricia thought, sipping her tea.
Moments later she was again regarding the improbable bowl of petunias, displayed proudly on her sideboard, and pulling on her coat hastily. There was something entirely odd going on, and she was damned if she was going to miss out on it. It was time to fire up the old blog again, and Tricia had just the kind of weird topic the internet would just eat up. The days of ignoring conspiracy theories were over. Tricia was going to discover the cause of these improbable occurrences if it killed her.
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